In Our Blood
by ShaNini86
Summary: On the anniversary of Olivia's death, Eli discovers the blood ties together more than just family. Rated T for violence, offensive language, and triggering topics.


**Hi everyone - it's been a long time!**

**I was cleaning out some old files on my computer and I found this SVU fanfic. I decided to clean it up and republish it because I forgot how much fun I had writing this story. That being said, the story originally was written in 2008 and the past scenes are written with references to SVU seasons 9-10. The present day is written for 2013 (not 2008 because I've edited the piece). I know this explanation sounds confusing. I'll try my best to mark time and point of view shifts as clear as possible. The quotes from Tess Gallagher that appear before some chapters are all from her various poems that appear in ****_Dear Ghosts. _****Other quotes will be given appropriate attributions.**

**As for some business matters, I don't know how long it takes someone to become a cop or a detective and those bits of information are entirely fabricated. Because my math skills aren't too hot either, let's pretend the years are accurate, especially because I've revived this fanfic almost six years after I originally wrote it. Also, the main characters are AU and because I stopped watching the show after season 10 and I'm not sure about developments of SVU's current seasons, I claim poetic license with any characteristics or plot lines that seem off or ill-fitted. Basically, I'm having a little fun, so I hope you all can look past any odd character cannons and/or plot movements. Lastly, this fanfic may be triggering for some, so read on with caution.**

**Okay, finally done the business stuff. Now, on to the story! Enjoy! :)**

* * *

_"And I don't know why we are together, dear ghosts, or why we have to part. Only that it is precious and that I love this run-down subject."- Tess Gallagher_

* * *

**Eli**

It's so cold that I think my fingers are going to fall off. _Why do I always forget my gloves? _I ask myself as I make my way around tombstones and over hard, frozen earth. The wind whips around the few trees and the graying stones the rise out of the grass, and I bury my head against the collar of my coat. She had to die in November, when everything else was dying.

I know he's at the cemetery before I arrive because I know the weight this anniversary carries. He hadn't slept last night. I went to my childhood home after work around 3 A.M., and he was sitting at the kitchen table with his arms folded in front of him, as if they were holding him together. When he asked me why I wasn't in my own apartment, I told him I knew how hard today was for him. At that point, we were only three hours deep.

Now, it's 9 A.M. and we're both at her grave. From my vantage point on my parent's living room couch and underneath a homemade quilt earlier that morning, I watched him prepare to leave while I pretended to be asleep. He had thundered around the kitchen, clamoring for his favorite coffee mug, complaining like a cranky toddler when he discovered it was dirty. Mom had hushed him in low whispers that I couldn't hear. It's not like that mattered, though. Those tones only meant one thing, and it's the same thing I've been straining to hear my whole life.

I'm next to him now, and he doesn't respond. He doesn't, even notice that I'm near. One time when she was too wasted to drive home, I had picked up Kathleen at a bar. She had rambled to me in the car about her ex-boyfriend and her art projects, and I had only been half-listening until she said, "He looks at us like he never sees us," I knew who she meant. She didn't have to be sober for me to understand.

"Dad, it's cold. Where's your hat?"

I talk to him softly, like he's one of Maureen's kids and not my almost seventy-five year old father. His piercing blue eyes spear into my blue ones, and I meet his gaze. For a long while, he doesn't speak as the wind pushes his graying hairs into awkward tufts and hits the hollows in his cheek bones that are held up by a strong, set jaw.

"Munch has already been here."

My father's gaze is focused on a single red rose that was placed at the bottom of her grave, and I squint downwards because the wind stings and fills my eyes with water.

"Fin will come later. Casey, George, and Melinda too. Don would have…"

Now, my eyes really do tear because Grandpa Don died a few months ago. Sighing, I wonder why he's telling me all about them like I don't already know their plans, like they've changed in the past thirty-two years. Although the wind bites and grabs at my eyes and exposed skin, I look at my father who's stoically staring at her name, as if the etched granite letters were enough to bring her back.

"It's been thirty-two years…"

He trails off, and my stomach twists. Uncle Fin had warned me about this reaction when I had visited him earlier that week. He and Uncle Jon were playing chess, and both had told me how hard today would be for him - for them all. But I had expected this reaction, anticipated it in my bones in the same way I had anticipated the first day of school as a child, with both dread for schoolwork and anxiety for the day to pass so the rest would follow until the year was finally complete.

Every year, I sense her anniversary approaching when the leaves lose their brilliant golds and reds and begin to fall to the ground, shriveling into dry masses that crunch under my feet when I walk on busy city streets. When the wind starts to feel less soothing and becomes harsher, I shove my hands in my pockets, hunch my shoulders, and wait. When mom calls and says he's retreating into himself again, staring at the television each night with one hand around a glass of whiskey that he never finishes, I know the day is near, yet even for all my mental preparation, the anniversary of Olivia's death had arrived and I was, once again, at a loss. Sometimes the right words escape me.

"Dad, don't do this."

Immediately, I stop talking, knowing that I've said something wrong. I'm not Maureen, who teaches children and has four of her own. She knows how to be gentle. And I'm certainly not Lizzie who can psychoanalyze anyone, but give advice tactfully. Dickie's hard, like me, but the Marines do that to you. But I'll never be Kathleen, righteously angry as she throws paint onto white canvases the New York City's upper elite art collectors call "maddeningly breathtaking." Sometimes I wish I were someone else, especially now, because my father's looking at me like he never wants to see me again.

"It was cold out like this that day too."

I'm listening because in my almost thirty-three years of life, I've never heard this story before. He's never told me about that day. He's never even told my mother. But now, I'm standing in a sea of stone markers with the cold sweeping over me. I'm shivering, and my father's about to divulge the worse thing he's ever experienced.

And the only thing I can do is wait for the story to unfold.

**_32 Years Prior_**

**_Elliot_**

_"Put the gun down, Greene!"_

_Olivia's voice is stern and her gun is steady, pointing in Greene's direction. I know I'm doing the same, but I can't feel my fingers because the wind's so cold. Next to me, Olivia's shaking, and I wonder if she's cold too or just scared. In the past, I would have said cold, but, lately, I'd say scared because the atrocities are piling up and we keep hacking away at the mass without any real end in sight. Olivia begins to talk because Olivia always seems to be the right one to diffuse these situations._

_This is a horrible situation because Green's raped and murdered six women. He's pointing a .22 at us, even though he's out-numbered and cornered with his bank against an alley wall. I think that he has guts, but when he smiles and reveals a rotting-toothed grin, I think he just might be more crazy than brave._

_"I knew you'd figure it out, detectives."_

_He spits out "detective" like he's just bitten into a moldy piece of bread. My finger reaches for the trigger, but I don't apply pressure. I'd like to shoot the bastard right now, but Olivia's giving me a sideways glance that warns me that I know better._

_"How about you put the gun down and we can talk about all this?" Olivia's voice is calm, yet soft, and unwavering._

_Earlier, Huang had explained that Greene liked attention, liked to feel as though he is important and in control. Shifting to bring warmth to my frozen body, I try Haung's approach._

_"Yeah. It did take us a while to figure it out. You were pretty clever."_

_I look at Olivia for reassurance. For a brief moment, our gazes meet and I see a flicker of doubt in her eyes. My stomach twists into a massive knot._

_"There's not going to be any fucking talking!" Next to me, Olivia stiffens._

_"This isn't a game, Greene."_

_Greene grins menacingly again and wobbles the gun in our direction._

_"Actually, Olivia, it is."_

_I don't know how he knows her name, and Greene catches the surprised look I couldn't hide from my expression._

_"Oh, I know all about you and your partner, Elliot, here. You know, you two should really be more careful what the papers report. Us psychos just love all the attention."_

_I cringe because Olivia and I had been quoted and pictured at random intervals while we attempted to chase Greene all over the city from one dead body to the next, like a constant game of cat and mouse. When this standoff is done, I'll kill Huang for suggesting that we should go public with some information in the chance that Greene would see our dangling carrots and make a mistake, which would lead us to catching him._

_"Put the gun down!" I'm yelling and Greene doesn't pay me the slightest bit of attention. Something in my stomach lurches. Nothing about this feels right, even though there are two of us to his one._

_"When will you guys learn? I'm not here to give up."_

_He's grinning at me, and I can see the brown plastered against the edges of his teeth. Thin strands of hair are stuck against his shiny forehead that's riddled with old acne scars. Even though it's so cold that the feeling in my bare hands left the moment I pulled out my gun, I notice that Greene's sweating._

_"You know one of us is going to shoot you," I say._

_Inside, I'm hoping to hell that it comes soon because the bad feeling has worked its way up to my throat. We hadn't even had time to call for backup._

_"It's not going to be her," Greene tells me, pointing the gun at me._

_Even though I've had this happen to me so many times before, and even though I'm holding my own gun, I don't flinch, but my stomach still roars in protest. I'm thankful Greene can't see the anxiety pumping through my veins._

_"Try me." And a low, guttural tone that Olivia rarely uses is rising from her chest and my stomach knots loosen. I, oddly, feel reassured._

_"You know what? I think I'm going to spin the tables." He chuckles and his shoulders rise and fall under his thin, green jacket as his fingers cock the trigger._

_Two clicks tell me that Olivia and I have done the same. If I'm shaking, it's nothing compared to what Olivia's doing. Panicking, I try to send brain waves to Munch and Fin, who are canvassing the front of the abandoned, closed store, but aren't anywhere near the alley. Why the hell had we decided to split up?_

_"You're outnumbered, Greene."_

_Olivia's trying to reason, but I have a feeling that went away about the same time his oral hygiene did. Again, a sickening, wet smile, and he turns toward me, pointing the gun at my stomach._

_"That's where you're wrong, Olivia." And that's the last thing I hear as the gun goes off._

**Present Day**

**Eli**

In the cemetery, my father snakes his arm around his abdomen, as if he can feel the remnants of old scars, injuries, and wounds. I stare at her epithet, unable to understand what the words mean. I've never met Olivia, my father's old partner, but I know she was his partner. I know she meant more to him than he'd ever have the words to explain, even if he was someone who was good with words. I don't ask him to continue, but, instead, shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets. He'll continue when he can. My father shivers, takes a deep inhalation of November air, and stares beyond her grave and to the dim gray morning stretched across the horizon.

**32 Years Prior**

**Elliot**

_I'm expecting to feel a burning, blinding, white-hot pain in my gut. I've been shot before. I've been stabbed. I've almost been blown up. I've been thrown through windows. After all those times, the pain had taken over my entire body, cursing through my bloodstream until I've felt a release – disjointedness as I've floated in some semiconscious state. But now I'm vaguely aware that there's no pain and I'm lying in the cold dirt. Had I thrown myself down?_

_Footsteps echo off the surrounding pavement, and I jump upwards so fast that my head spins and my vision blurs. There's no blood, no pain, and I know I'm fine, but I can't even see Greene. The bastard must be running. My feet begin to move, but then I hear a groan so low that I would have missed the noise a second later. When I look down, I know why I felt so scared, why this case felt so wrong, and panic comes rushing up my throat as I forget all about Greene._

_"Liv!"_

_I'm at her side in an instant, covering the blood that's pouring out of her stomach onto the concrete. It can't be more than a minute after she's been shot, but the blood's seeping out, making an oval stain around her. Already, her face is white and her lips are ashen._

_"El…"_

_I can feel more blood oozing between my fingers and I will myself not to look as I push down harder. With one free hand, I call for back up in my walkie-talkie, toss it aside, and, immediately, put my hand back down to her wounds. On the black radio, my bloody fingerprints remain._

_"What did you do?" I'm pleading with her. My voice sounds desperate, and she closes her eyes._

_"You have kids…" Suddenly, I know she's pushed me out of the way and that I hadn't thrown myself onto the gravely pavement._

_"Liv…you…"_

_I can't talk because the tears are spilling, falling. My hands are covered and there's more blood leaking out from underneath her, coming from somewhere I can't reach._

_"It's ok, El."_

_Leave it to Olivia to reassure me while she's bleeding out in the back of some alley._

_"Liv, you're gonna be fine." I say just as much for myself as for her._

_"I'm sorry, El."_

_Her voice is fading. I don't know what to do. On the ground, my radio squawks that help is on the way. I do the only thing I can think to do, I scream for Munch and Fin. I scream for help. I scream because Liv is slipping in and out of consciousness. I'm still yelling for Munch and Fin when I hear their footsteps slam on the pavement behind me._

_"Liv, stay awake! Come on, stay with me!"_

_Liv's head has fallen to the side, her lips slightly parted, and if this were any other situation, she'd look like she was sleeping. But blood is oozing through my hands, and I'm beginning to understand that I'm losing._

_"Shit! Holy shit!"_

_I've never heard this much emotion in Fin's voice, and the realization makes me choke back sobs. Yanking off his cotton jacket, Fin throws it under my arms, and I push down again. In moments, the material is soaked through._

_"Munch, call the fucking bus!" Fin voice is stern, but edged with panic. I push harder. Liv groans._

_I want to tell him I already called, that the bus is coming and Liv will be fine, but I can hear Munch's frantic tones pleading for the ambulance to come faster._

_"You're not sorry, Liv. We're gonna joke about this tomorrow." Even as I talk, I know that I, and my words, sound stupid. There's nothing funny about this situation._

_"El…I should have…" Fin's shaking her shoulder gently, telling her to stay awake. Munch is running toward the end of the alley, waving his arms at the flashing red lights that are throwing beams across the brick walls._

_"The bus is here, Liv." A small smile crosses her lips and she opens them to speak. They're completely white now._

_"It's alright to let go now, El. I'm alright now."_

_There are the last words she says to me before the paramedics push me away._

**Present Time**

**Eli**

"She died on the way to the hospital. By the time we got there, it was too late. She lost too much blood."

Surprised, I put my hand to my cheeks and find that my face is wet with tears. The air is so cold that I wonder why the saline hasn't turned to ice. Next to me, my father's not making any attempt to acknowledge the fact that he's crying. I want to tell him that he "did his best," but the words sound like an empty platitude, and I know better. In more than just looks, I am my father's son. We stand in silence until my phone's harsh ringtone shocks us both into the present.

"Stabler." I speak into the phone in one breath.

On the other end, Captain Cassidy tells me to get my ass to work because I'm already an hour late. Even though his tone is rough, I'm not afraid. If Grandpa Don was my captain and on the other end of the line, I'd fear for my life. But he's gone, and Cassidy understands my tardiness because it was a hard day for him too.

"I have to go," I explain to my father. He nods.

"Work." He says, and I'm the one nodding this time.

Dead leaves twist under my feet as I turn to go before turning back once more. My father looks so old, crying and hunched over his dead partner's grave. I know he thinks he should have stopped her from saving him.

"Are you gonna be alright, dad?" I ask softly, placing my shoulder on his. Sighing, he closes his eyes, tilting his head upwards, as if silently praying to a God I know he stopped believing in a long time ago.

"Go to work, Eli. And watch Sam's back." He refers to my own partner, and I jerk my head to show I understand.

I turn my back to him, and walk toward my car, leaving my father and his ghosts in the cemetery.


End file.
